The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery by Alan Gordon Page A

me.”
    “I haven’t ruled that out yet,” warned Theo. “Could Vidal be behind this? He knew Folc well enough. Any reason for enmity between them?”
    “They were the greatest of friends,” said Pantalan simply.
    “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” sighed Theo. “I guess we have to find Vidal. Any possibility that you know where he is nowadays? And why did this have to be such a secret?”
    “That’s not the secret,” said Pantalan. “Vidal’s whereabouts are the secret.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Here,” said Pantalan. “He’s in Marseille.”
    “What? Since when?”
    “A week ago. Out of the blue, like the last time. Only…”
    “Only what? He’s drunk again?”
    “Worse. He’s mad. Barking.”
    “Barking mad?”
    “He’s mad and he’s barking,” said Pantalan. “Another romantic disaster. I couldn’t get all the details, something about wearing wolfskins and howling in the mountains and being beaten half to death by shepherds, but he’s gone around the bend this time. I didn’t want the Guild to know.”
    “What were you going to do with him?” I asked.
    “If he didn’t come out of it, then there’s a place I know of in Malta. An isolated place, run by the Templars for knights who have lost their reason. I was going to send him there.”
    “Where is he?” asked Theo.
    “West of town,” said Pantalan. “A quiet place. There’s a family I trust who watch him. He’s … he’s tied to a bed, Theo. I’d hate for anyone else from the Guild to see him like this. That’s not how he would have wanted to be remembered.”
    “Does he have lucid moments?”
    “Sometimes, but you never know when they are coming. And he won’t talk to me. He only talks to the women, trying to seduce them with his songs. He keeps calling them Adalaïs. They don’t know who he means, of course.”
    “With all his madness, he still sings,” mused Theo. Then he looked at me. “But only to women.”
    “Oh, no,” I said, my heart sinking. “That would be cruel. Just to find a song?”
    “I don’t know what else to do,” he said. “The song may be the key. What did this Adalaïs look like? More important, what did she sound like?”
    “A low voice, often harsh in rebuke,” said Pantalan. “About four notes down from your speaking voice, Claudia.”
    “Like this?” I asked, shifting my voice down.
    “Around there. But not as sweet.”
    “Do I look anything like her?”
    “The height is right,” he said, regarding me critically. “She was of fairer complexion, and younger back then than you are now.”
    “If the room is kept dark, then he might not notice,” suggested Theo. “He wants to see her. His madness will make up the difference. We’ll have to get you back into your old clothes, Duchess.”
    “Let me not change until we get there,” I said. “I don’t want people here to see me like that.”
    I opened my chest of costumes and dug through them. There, near the bottom, was a dark, green brocaded gown that I used for “The Duchess and Her Forward Fool,” a scene that Theo and I had played many times to great success in taverns and markets while secretly enjoying the truth that underlay it. I had worn similar gowns when I had been a duchess, but none of them survived the fires of Constantinople.
    I rolled it up and stuffed it into my pack.
    “Lead on,” I said.
    We followed through the quarter until we came to its outer wall. Small mountains rose from the sea to our left and continued in a ring around the city. The road we were on cut through farmland, and after about thirty minutes’ walk, Pantalan turned to the right and led us to a small farmhouse and knocked on the door. A woman of perhaps sixty opened it and looked at him silently, then at the rest of us with suspicion. Pantalan nodded, and she jerked her head around to the left. We filed past her and walked to the rear of the house. There was a set of crude wooden steps descending into an earthen cellar. I washed my makeup